


Overt

by brage



Series: Revealed [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward situations, Best Friends, Doctor John Watson, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Medical, Minor Injuries, Naked John, Not medical kink, Pre-Slash, Sexuality, but disguised as medical kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2758406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brage/pseuds/brage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's turn!  Of course when John agreed to let Sherlock examine him he figured he would live to regret it.  He wasn't wrong.  Awkward conversations happen and John jumps to conclusions about Sherlock's proclivities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's turn

**Author's Note:**

> This is part two in the Revealed series. I've been working on it for 3 months. I wish I was faster at writing, but I'm just not. So sorry for keeping you waiting. 
> 
> I didn't wait to have this one beta read or brit picked so all mistakes are mine. I'm sure I'll revise once that's done because I seriously doubt I caught all the deplorable punctuation mark errors I commit.

“Are you done yet?”  Sherlock asked somewhat less then patiently.  He had gotten dressed in his usual suit but didn’t bother putting the suit jacket back on.  He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and was now pacing the room in anticipation. 

John finished up with the documentation of Sherlock’s physical exam and finally turned around to face his flatmate, “Yes, I’m done.  Would you like to go over my findings then?”

“No.  I already know your findings.  I could tell you word for word what you’ve written.  Now, it’s your turn.  Disrobe please.”  He flashed John that fake, wide smile that he gave when he wanted someone to do his bidding.

“Right to the point then, yeah?”

“No point in dawdling.”

“Down to my boxers though, right?”

“No, what for?” Sherlock looked abashed.  “We’re both adults here.”

“That wasn’t the tune you were singing ten minutes ago was it?” 

Sherlock looked guiltily away for a moment.  “Well, that was …”

“That was you, I know.”  John shook his head and stood, pulling his jumper up over his head, folding it and placing it neatly on the counter.  “I’m stripping off down to my boxers.”

“I need to see you, all of you.  I want to see all of your reactions.  No matter how embarrassing they might be.  It’s paramount to the Work, John.  Sexual reaction is the most important because it is by far the most common motivator for crime.”

“Sherlock, great detective that you are, should probably be able to deduce weather or not I get a hard on especially since I’ll just be in my pants.  Not really much in the way of camouflage, is there?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Fine.” 

John stared at Sherlock expectantly until he realized the man would have no sense of chivalry in regards to John’s modesty and would not think to give John a moment while he undressed or even turn around while he did so.  John sighed deeply and pulled his t-shirt up over his head.  “You could at least turn around, you know.”

“What for?”  Sherlock’s gaze became pointedly fixated on the scar to John’s shoulder. 

John turned his shoulder away and felt the rise of color in his cheeks.  “Not a pretty sight, I suppose.”

“Can I see it?”  Sherlock took a step closer.

John met his eyes.  “Oh, c’mon, you’ve had to have seen a bullet wound before.”

“Not yours.”  He cleared his throat.  “Not healed ones.”

John looked pensive for a moment and then nodded once, quickly and stood up straight.  His gaze focused on a point somewhere over Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“You are embarrassed about this marring of your flesh.  You don’t leave your shirt off very often, not even after you leave the shower or when it’s very hot, not even when you are with a woman.  You hide it as though it is a nuisance or a reminder of a person you no longer see yourself in or a painful past.  I see it as beautiful.”  Sherlock reached out a tentative hand to touch it.  “It’s …”

“Sherlock?”  John was stunned on the look of pure adoration in Sherlock’s eyes.  He seemed like, well John didn’t know what he actually seemed like, but Sherlock didn’t do emotions.  Maybe a bit of frustration, possibly fury with the world at large for not providing him with a locked-room murder at least once a week, but this was something different he hadn’t ever seen in the man. 

And then it was over.  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Sherlock had said in his usual automated manner and then ordered, “off with the trousers,” followed quickly by a “please” and that fake, wide grin again. 

“You’re really not going to turn around or anything then?” 

Sherlock shrugged dismissively as if the question didn’t even warrant a response. 

With the patience of a saint, John resigned.  “Sod it,” he whispered to himself.  “Nevermind,” he stated to his friend as he reached for the button on his trousers.  Finally in nothing but socks and his boxers, John reached for the gown. 

“No.”

John raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock.  “No?  No what?”

“No gown.  I allowed your boxers which are, frankly, ridiculous.  Why would anyone choose to wear an undergarment with so much extra room made of starched cotton material with absolutely no elastic properties whatsoever?  They bunch up under your trousers and do not allow any support at all to your penis and testicles.”

“My penis and testicles are just fine, thank you very much.”

“Yes, I can see that for myself since I can quite clearly see your glans hanging out the bottom of your right pants leg.” 

“Jeezus, Sherlock!”  John scrambled to adjust his pants a bit to cover his cock then grabbed the gown and with snappy movements of finality, he definitely put the gown right on. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Modesty is dull.” 

“Except when it’s your own, I suppose.” 

“I’m not modest.” 

“You’re right,” John agreed in the interest of moving on.  “Let’s get on with it.  My stethoscope is on the desk.”  John hopped up onto the exam table.

“Won’t be needing it.”  Sherlock grabbed a thermometer off the counter with a flourish and presented it to John.  “My research indicated the most accurate temperature is a core temperature.” 

John grabbed the thermometer from Sherlock’s hand, “you’re not sticking that in my bum,” he explained in no uncertain terms and then placed it correctly into his own mouth closing his lips around it and glaring at Sherlock. 

“You’re not cooperating.”  Sherlock accused.

“You’re being an arse,” John mumbled and then removed the object after he heard the digital beep and handed it back to Sherlock.

Sherlock huffed before he turned and flicked the light switch, surrounding them both in darkness.  John was just about to ask what the hell he was doing but then he heard a click and a small, bright torch was being shined into his face and Sherlock’s hand was on his head holding his eyelid open. 

“Easy.”  John warned.  “You don’t have to hold them open.  I can keep my eyes open myself.”

“Fine.”  Sherlock’s grasp eased but he kept his hand on John’s head while he continued to move the light in John’s eyes one at a time. 

“Can you see the pupil of my right eye when you put the light into my left one?”

Sherlock put the light into John’s right eye and looked at his left one.  “Yes.”

“Take the light away for a moment and then do it again.”  After Sherlock did as he was instructed, John continued.  “The pupil in the right eye will obviously constrict but the left eye has to as well even though the light isn’t in that one.  It’s a sign of brain damage if they’re not equal to each other.”

“Hmm.”  Sherlock grumbled noncommittally.  He turned and flipped the light switch back on and John felt a firm grip on his chin pulling his jaw downward.  Soon he found himself with a wooden stick shoved into his mouth.

John pushed at Sherlock’s arm and disentangled himself from the contact spluttering and spitting.  “What the hell?”

“John, will you stop being so resistant.  You’re making it impossible to examine your uvula.”

John held up his hand still trying to get the nasty taste of the tongue depressor out of his mouth.  He sighed, “why do you want to see something so mundane?  It can’t be a topic you run into during your work?”

“Lots of people die of anaphylaxis, John.  The upper airway is completely constricted due to swelling.  I just wanted to see what a healthy one looked like.”

“Yeah, but you’ve seen loads of bodies that didn’t die from that.  You’ve seen their airways then.”

“None that have the movement of their muscles intact so I can properly visualize.  Honestly, John, if I have to explain why I’m doing everything I’m doing, this is going to take all day.”

“Fine, fine, but just … can you stop …”

“Treating you like a lab rat?”

“Yeah!  A bit, yeah.”

Sherlock nodded.  “I can be … gentle.”

“Ta.”  John raised the tongue depressor in front of his face and offered it back to Sherlock.  Place it gently toward the back of my tongue but not too far back.  Hold the torch up and shine it in the back of my throat.  It’s not uncommon to trigger the gag reflex so go quickly.” 

Once the wooden blade was in place and John was saying “aaaahhhh” for as long as he could, Sherlock shined the light in and explored.  “Fascinating,” Sherlock finally said just before he pulled back and stood up straight.  “Hmm.” 

John moved his tongue around in his mouth attempting to get rid of the grating feel and taste of wood on his tongue.  “Blah … I hate that.”  He watched Sherlock toss the stick into the trash bin.  “Hope that was good for you,” John deadpanned.

Sherlock gave him a scowl and turned back toward the counter for his next instrument selection.  John breathed a sigh of relief when it was just the reflex hammer.  They spent the next several minutes with Sherlock gently tapping John at certain joints anticipating the correct responses.  Some he performed absolutely correctly and others John would guide him in the right direction.  Sherlock pulled out other various instruments applying them in different ways checking for different automatic responses, which, apparently, John had provided with a “fascinating” response. 

“Lay back, please.”  Sherlock instructed and John complied quickly enough.  “I am going to gently pull up your gown, John.” 

John giggled.  “You’re such a wanker,” he said as he put both arms behind his head and leaned back, relaxed.  Sherlock seemed to be getting the hang of touching an actual human and he seemed to be innocuously fascinated with simple reflexes so John felt more at ease as the time passed. 

He felt warm hands at both of his hips which then hooked into the waistband of his pants and Sherlock instructed him with a stern “hips up please.”

John grabbed for the elastic and the only vestige of modesty he had left.  “You’re taking off my pants?  Why?”  He tried not to sound all Victorian virgin about it, but it might have had an air of squeakiness to it.    

“We’ve been over this, hips up.”

“Sherlock?”  John said with a warning.

“I promise I’m not going to do anything more invasive than you’ve done to me.  I just want to visualize the cremastor reflex.”

John rolled his eyes.  “Fine,” and he lifted his hips off the table as Sherlock dragged his boxers off and tossed them aside. 

“Just as I suspected,” Sherlock declared. 

“Suspected what?”  John tossed his gown back down as he felt Sherlock’s assessing gaze focused strictly on John’s cock. 

“The size of your penis, of course.”

“What?  Sherlock you can’t say things like that, for God’s sake!”

“No, **_you_** can’t say things like that.  I’m not a physician.  I can say whatever I like and I’m pretty sure we knew going in that my bedside manner might be a bit lacking.  You have a substantially sized penis.  You are a short man with a history of authority and no trouble bedding women.  You don’t spend your money on the latest fashion or fancy sports cars to make up for the size of your genitalia, you walk with the stature and command of a man who has it all, therefore…”

“Big cock, yeah, I got it.  Ta.  Don’t hear that every day from your flatmate.”

“Shall we continue?”

John leaned back once more and closed his eyes allowing Sherlock full rein.  It was a bit humiliating with all of his bits presented but no more so than a full physical had been he supposed.  “Just so you know, I definitely draw the line at rectal response,” John said, grateful he hadn’t forced the issue of a prostate exam on Sherlock if he was going to play tit for tat. 

“Fair enough.” 

John felt the graze of Sherlock’s fingertips across his right upper, inner thigh. 

“Nothing happened,” Sherlock sounded petulant.

“Wait for it.” 

“Ah!  Oh, that is fascinating.  It’s like a swirling fingerprint!” 

John wasn’t sure he liked the thought of Sherlock comparing his rising testicle to a fingerprint, but that was probably an apt description.  Much bigger scale though, thank you very much.

“My research states that this reflex is much more discernable when the person is standing up.”

“It is,” John confirmed. 

“Will you stand, please?”

John stood and held his gown to the side as Sherlock pulled up the stool and sat down just in front of John, eye level to John’s hips.  He repeated the light graze of fingertips to John’s other thigh and watched in fascination as the other testicle slowly rose.  John thought it was amusing to watch Sherlock so wrapped up in the rise and fall of the sensitive skin surrounding his bollocks.  It made him think about those who have shared his bed in the past and how they would explore each other languidly after the heat and frenzy had worn off, but he supposed Sherlock hadn’t had many lovers to just explore and notice different things about the delicate areas of the body.  At least he hadn’t noticed any lovers since he’d started living with the man.  Not for the first time John found himself wondering about Sherlock’s sexuality.  They hadn’t really talked about it since that first night where he had made it perfectly clear that women weren’t his area and that he was married to his work. 

“Haven’t you ever taken time during pillow talk with someone to just explore them?”

Sherlock looked up, stunned.  “Is this something one does during ‘pillow talk’?”

John let his gown fall.  “Oh, I guess … well that’s sort of,” he sighed.  “Not between us, of course, but it kind of reminds me of that.  You know, being touched, being kissed or licked or bit or whatever, and then just watching what happens to the skin?”

“No, I don’t know.”  Sherlock suddenly stood surreptitiously pushing his palm into his groin as he turned away.  “Not my area.” 

“Sherlock, are you…”

“Back up on the table,” Sherlock instructed quickly, cutting John off mid-sentence.  “Please.”  He had turned toward the counter seemingly searching the contents for something.  He was breathing deeply, quickly and after a few moments he turned back toward John without any instruments in his hands.  John thought that was an awful lot of searching for nothing.    

John had done as instructed and waited.  When Sherlock was at his side once more, he asked, “you okay?”

“Certainly.  Why wouldn’t I be?”  He lifted John’s gown again and began pressing his fingertips into John’s abdomen just as John had done to him. 

“Do you know what you’re looking for when you do that?” John asked.

“I don’t know what you are looking for when you do that, aside from the obvious, liver borders, lumps, masses, and etcetera.  I know what I’m looking for though.” 

“What is it you’re looking for then?”

Sherlock did not answer but continued to palpate the lower belly. 

“You’re trying to recreate what happened to you earlier, aren’t you?”

Sherlock huffed. 

“Sherlock, I’m not going to get an erection from you examining me.”

“Why wouldn’t you?  You said it happens all the time.”

John pushed his gown back down and rose up on his elbows.  “Yes, yes I did.”

“Well does it or does it not?”

“Sure … for some people,” he finished lamely.

“You think I have a medical kink.”  Sherlock squinted his eyes, shooting daggers at John. 

“Sherlock, it’s all fine …”  John abruptly halted his attempt to soothe his flatmate when said flatmate made a sudden turn and dashed out of the room, grabbing his coat as he went. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
 

The next few days were a bit quiet.  Sherlock successfully avoided John and then made a point to squash any attempts of conversation about what had happened at the surgery.   Finally John had simply said something vague about best mates being able to talk about ‘sex stuff’ if they need to but if best mates would rather just be British and drink tea and ignore it all, that was fine too.  Apparently, the second option won out. 

Their routine fell back into place.  Sherlock was still an utter cock to everyone, destroyed the kitchen on a semi-regular basis and shouted “obvious!” at the tele a lot.  John still followed him on cases, picked up the shopping and announced how “absolutely remarkable” Sherlock’s deductions were. 

 

 

Sherlock scowled at the crime scene in disgust.  “Why have I been called in for this?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes.  “C’mon Sherlock,” he said pinching the bridge of his nose trying to muster as much patience as possible.  “Can we just assume we’re all idiots and have you move on from that point?”

“We agreed, Lestrade!  I am not at your beck and call.  This barely rates a four.”  Sherlock spun on his heels and started walking toward the mouth of the alleyway where the crowd had started to gather. 

“Sherlock,” John said in warning.  “C’mon, we’ve talked about this.”

Lestrade turned toward Sherlock.  “A man shot to death with only an exit wound and no entry wound?  That has to rate at least a seven.”

Sherlock harrumphed and glared at Lestrade and then John in turn before stalking back toward the body lying in a bloody pool on the concrete.  He mumbled something about seeing and not observing as he went, Greg and John in tow.  Once he ordered Anderson away from the corpse, he began leading them on the correct path.

“Rats!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Sherlock,”  John warned. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “The gunshot wound is not an exit wound.”

“Oh c’mon, look at it!  It’s obviously an exit wound.”  Anderson scoffed. 

“Wrong!  He was shot.  The bullet did not exit his body but you won’t find it during an autopsy of his body.  You’ll find it during an autopsy of that body,” Sherlock said pointing to a spot a few feet away from the corpse lying on the ground in the dirty alleyway. 

“A rat?”  Donovan laughed.  “Oh, you’re a piece a work!” 

“Of course, a rat,” Sherlock continued.  “The rat climbed into the wound, dilating the wound more as it entered.  It ate the bullet and then climbed back out, dilating the wound a bit more and also turning the victims clothing fibers at the entry point, outward leading you to assume erroneously that it was an exit wound.  It stumbled a meter away where it died of asphyxiation.  A 9mm bullet is not very palatable for a rodent’s diet I’m afraid.  Didn’t do much for his breathing either,” he said nodding toward the deceased. 

“Seriously?”  Donovan interjected.  “You just made that up.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued.  “Drugs deal gone wrong.  Recently divorced banker just started into using four, no six months ago, his usual dealer was unavailable or has overextended his credit.  Used  a dealer he wasn’t familiar with, an unsavory character, a drug addict himself.  The shooter became paranoid and shot the victim during the deal.” 

“That’s amazing.”  John said.

“How do you know it was a junkie that shot him?”  Lestrade asked. 

Sherlock pointed downward.  “His University ring is missing very recently and taken off his finger forcefully.  Desperation and not much time to hang around.  Drug addict.”  Sherlock trailed off distracted while Anderson and Donovan were snapping at him.  Something had apparently drawn his attention away from the crime scene and if John waited too long, Sherlock would already be in a cab and gone before John caught up to him at 221B. 

“Sherlock?”  John  hustled over to tell Lestrade he and Sherlock would meet him at NSY in a couple of hours as he watched Sherlock  walk toward the gathered crowd.  He heard Lestrade ordering someone to “bag the rat!” as he jogged to get to his friend. 

John vaguely noticed Sherlock talking to someone and registered that as a bit odd before the man moved as though startled, pulled out a knife and quickly stabbed Sherlock before taking off at a dead run. 

“SHERLOCK!”  John ran toward him as fear gripped him at his throat.  He found himself begging any power that be to please please please let Sherlock be fine. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well these are some short chapters. Should have just combined them but, no biggie, I suppose. It seemed so much longer when I was writing it.


	3. Chapter 3

Naturally, Sherlock had the gall to be pissed that everyone was standing around his stabbed and bloody self while the apparent killer had gotten away.  Also par for the course, Sherlock had refused to go to A&E holding up his bloody hand and proclaiming with vehemence that it was only a flesh wound and how could they all be so stupid.  John attempted access to Sherlock’s wound several times only to have the man spin away muttering “For God’s sake, John!” an awful lot.  Not only had he refused an ambulance, he refused on-site care, he refused to even let John have a glimpse of it, wrapping it up himself in an offered towel before hailing a cab.  John was barely able to slide in next to him before the cab was instructed harshly to “drive” by Sherlock.  John directed the cabbie to 221B Baker Street and settled back for what he knew was going to be a right old stropping, Sherlock fit.  John sighed resignedly.

Sherlock left John to pay and dashed inside.  John caught up with him quickly though as he was rounding the corner to go into his room.

“Nope.  Stop right there,” John ordered in his Captain’s voice.

Sherlock did stop but refused to turn around.  “I’m f…”

“ **IF**  the next word uttered from your mouth, so help me Sherlock …” he trailed off, obviously frustrated and more than a little angry.  “You and I had a deal.  You were going to stop ignoring injuries and let them be treated properly or was that just something to say to get what you want?”

Sherlock sighed heavily.  “Of course not.  I assumed you meant real injuries.  This is nothing.”

“How about you let me be the judge of that?”

Sherlock sagged a bit, turned toward John and raised an eyebrow before entering the kitchen.  With a bit of effort he removed his jacket and sat upon the end of the table with an indignant “fine.”

John washed his hands and got to work gently removing the cloth from around Sherlock’s hand.  He prodded at the wound edges across the outside of his palm along the pinky finger and extending down almost to his wrist.  There was another line parallel to the first but much shorter indicating the knife had gone all the way through Sherlock’s hand at the edge of his palm, in the fleshy part by the thumb. Thankfully, it had nearly stopped bleeding.

“Do you have full use of your thumb?”

Sherlock moved his thumb around in a circle and then moved his pointer finger around purposefully. 

“Good, that’s very good.”  John shook his head, “you’re lucky. This coulda been much worse.”

“Yes, that’s the story of my life.”

John nodded in agreement and gave a tight-lipped smirk.  “What made you go down that alley?”  John grabbed his med kit under the counter and started pulling supplies.

“Ring.”  Sherlock said dismissively.

“Ring?”  John began cleansing the wound as he waited for a clear answer from his flatmate.

“Yes, the ring that was missing.  It was red and ridiculously garish.  You did see him.  I’m probably feeding into the stereotype but it wasn’t a difficult leap to assume the disheveld, tattoed, pierced, hadn’t-eaten-a-proper-meal-or-bathed in a week, drug-dealer had never been to university himself so the ring was a bit out of place on him.”

John was drawing up some medicine in a syringe.  “So you knew going down that way you were heading straight at the killer and you kept on walking without saying a word, not one word to one of us.  It wouldn’t have even taken a bloody phone call or a text, Sherlock.  All you had to do was nudge one of us and say ‘oh hey, by the way, that’s your killer standin’ right over there.  Would you mind being a good chap and arresting the bloke.’ But NO, Sherlock bloody Holmes and his massive intellect couldn’t be bothered.”  In his anger, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and twisted into position for the lidocaine injection but stopped when Sherlock hissed and pulled back.

John let go and took a step back.  He hadn’t meant to hurt Sherlock but maybe he couldn’t remove himself personally without getting over the anger he felt first.  He recapped the needle and set the syringe back down on the counter.  “I’m sorry.  You all right?”

Sherlock nodded.  “John, I didn’t know it was the killer.  I have great eyesight, but all I could see from a distance was a red stone.  It could have been a gumball machine toy for all I knew.  I had no intention of being stabbed when I walked toward him.”

“Of course you didn’t, but Sherlock, it would have taken absolutely no effort at all to have an officer go with you toward anyone you might have the tiniest inkling might be a possible, maybe, could-be killer.  You have enough of a reputation that they’d all bloody-well believe you and help you hash out your theories.” 

Sherlock shook his head.  “No, that wouldn’t have worked.  The man was antsy.  If an officer would have approached him, he would have simply run off sooner.  There was only a 70% chance he might attack me, but I would have my deduction before he ran, I might have even been able to apprehend him myself as I have done on numerous occasions, but there was a 100% chance he would run if an officer approached and then I would be no closer to finding the killer than you or Lestrade,” he scoffed like that would have been an unacceptable outcome.  “Besides, I fended him off just fine.”

“Oh, I can see that!”

“He wasn’t aiming for my hand, John.”

John was startled by that realization.  Sherlock was right.  This was defensive wound and just as easily, if Sherlock didn’t have quick enough reflexes and blocked the forward motion of the knife with his own hand, it very well could have gone through the man’s heart or a major artery.  John shook his head and pinched at the bridge of his nose.  “God, you just don’t get it do you.  I mean you really are clueless.”

“What?”

“People care about you, Sherlock.  Could you imagine the kind of guilt Greg would feel if you had died at that crime scene?”

“Who?”

“Greg!  Lestrade!  Oh, jeezus … nevermind.”  He picked up the syringe again and took in a deep breath to calm himself before wilding the sharp instrument.  “Let me just say this,” he pointed the capped syringe at Sherlock, “you do not own our friendship exclusively.  It is half mine and if you think I’m going to sit back and watch you take yourself away from that, you are crazy.  I partly own our times we have yet to come as well and I’m not going to let you deprive me of that so you damn well better buckle in because this ride is going to be bumpy enough without you trying to jump off.”

Calmly John injected Sherlock’s skin and heard a ‘hmm’ coming from his friend, but he refused to meet the man’s gaze even for a moment as he donned sterile gloves and worked Sherlock’s skin back together.

Several minutes later John noticed Sherlock’s breathing was becoming more rapid and his face was flush.  “You all right?”

Sherlock nodded.  “I’m a bit cold.  Can you hand me my jacket please?”

“I’ve got two stitches left and my gloves are sterile.  Can you hang on?”

Sherlock sighed and his feet began to twitch.

John stopped what he was doing to take in what was happening with Sherlock.  Was he going into shock?  It was common to go into a kind of shock after coming down from a quick adrenaline rush.  John pulled a glove off with a snap and placed two fingers at Sherlock’s carotid artery.  “What’s going on, Sherlock? Are you in pain? Do you have another injury?”  John began pulling at Sherlock’s shirt to attempt to ascertain why the man’s pulse rate was going up instead of down.

Sherlock pushed John’s hands away quickly and grabbed his jacket placing it quickly in his lap and then sitting down in a chair at the table.  He looked for all the world as though he would rather spend time in the company of Anderson rather than John at the moment.  He looked miserable and forlorn and pressed his arm across his lower belly, his jacket in front of him. 

Just when John was about to insist Sherlock let him do a complete once over, he remembered the physical he had done on Sherlock and the reason for the delays then.  “Oh.”  John turned toward the sink and began washing his hands again.  “It’s just a small form of shock, Sherlock.  Not a big deal.  It’s what makes your pulse and your breathing so rapid.  You’ll get sleepy here shortly as well,” John explained attempting to give Sherlock a bit of space and attempt to dissolve some of the humiliation he might be feeling.  Not for the first time John found himself wondering about Sherlock’s medical kink and how long it had been going on.  He wasn’t one to judge others for what made them go ‘round though.  It wasn’t his business.  If Sherlock had a kink, so what.  If Sherlock liked to masturbate in front of pink-haired troll dolls it had nothing to do with John whatsoever.  John toweled his hands off and put on a fresh pair of sterile gloves to finish the job.  “Just put your hand down on the table.  I think we can both sit for the last of it, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded looking a bit less miserable.  "You know John, you really should stop coming to a conclusion without all the facts."  Sherlock sighed and slumped his head on his other arm, submitting the injured one to John.  He closed his eyes shutting out the world and began to drift off leaving John to wonder what the hell that statement was about.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a cracky ending but I wanted the last part to have different tags and ratings. I hope you like it. Seriously, this part was only finally finished because I got some comments and feedback. Feedback really does inspire me to write more. No feedback=no inspiration. I know that's ridiculous, but that's the circle of life I suppose. ;) 
> 
> Next and last story will be more revelations, Sherlock whump and the smut.


End file.
